


Thinking Machine

by VaguelyDownwards



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Gen, playing fast and loose with historical accuracy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-03
Updated: 2012-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-09 01:59:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VaguelyDownwards/pseuds/VaguelyDownwards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chief Aetherical Engineer Martin Crieff has always wanted to build his own fully independent humanoid construct, to prove to everyone he's just as good as the rest. At Carolyn's shop, he finally has the means to do so. His construct will be everything he's not, and maybe people will stop being so disappointed with him.</p><p>His construct IS everything he's not, and it couldn't be more of a disaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thinking Machine

**Author's Note:**

> I promise you Sherlock & Co will show up before too long. Recommended listening for the fic is "Brass Goggles" by Steam Powered Giraffe.

“You know, Martin, we’re not supposed to work on personal projects in the shop.” The precise wavelength of Douglas’s smarm was audible even over the crackle and hum of the arc welder. Martin sighed and shut it off, resigning himself to conversation with his supposed second-in-command.

“Since when have _you_ cared about regulations?” he said, not bothering to lift his visor. He found it much easier to tolerate Douglas’s personal brand of humor if he was free to make pained expressions in peace.

“You insult me! I’m a man of strong moral fiber when it’s profitable,” said Douglas. He loomed over Martin’s shoulder and inspected his work, occasionally making disapproving sounds.

Martin scowled. “Oh, leave off it, will you? Anyway, there’s no hard rule against using the shop tools for personal use so long as we’re careful. And I _am_ careful.”

“I seem to recall Carolyn having very strong feelings about fully independent humanoid constructs, and they weren’t favorable.”

“Yes, well, that’s because clients tend to get upset when their favorite butler doesn’t have quite the same charm when he’s reactivated. I can’t say I blame them. Reactivation’s tricky work.” He stopped himself before he started quoting his textbooks on the unpredictable nature of aetheric energy. Douglas could probably use the reminder, but it wasn’t like he’d listen.

“And this isn’t,” said Douglas in a clearly disbelieving tone.

Martin pulled off his welding visor in defeat. “Fresh activation’s different, okay? I’m not trying to make the next Wilde—”

“Thank God for that.”

Martin ignored the interruption. “I just want to make something that _works,_ something of my own. And if it’s not suitable for home or commercial use, that’s fine, but at least I can point at it and say, ‘Look at what I built, everybody.’” He rested his head in his hands, the day’s exhaustion suddenly crashing down on him.

Douglas didn’t immediately respond. For a brief moment, Martin thought that maybe he was actually being taken seriously, that Douglas had been moved by his little outburst, but when he looked up, Douglas was pulling back the tarp that covered the construct’s upper half. “I see God made man in his own image,” he remarked drily.

“I didn’t have anything else to use as a model.” He reached for the tarp, but Douglas held it away from him. “Please. Before Carolyn sees.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t against the rules.”

“I’ll tell her why we go through the synthetic oil so quickly.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’re still on the same canister we opened last week.”

“Douglas, not even Arthur would mistake that sludge for the expensive stuff we’re _supposed_ to be saving for paying customers.”

Douglas narrowed his eyes. “Fine,” he said, and whisked the tarp back into place with more force than was strictly necessary. Martin regretted playing his trump card, but he was grateful to see all the recognizably humanoid bits of his construct were safely concealed, and not a moment too soon. The cover was barely in place when Carloyn bustled into the room with blatant disregard for safety measures.

“Alright, children, time to look like qualified mechanics. We have a client,” she announced.

“Carolyn, you can’t just burst in here—” Martin began in alarm, knowing it was futile.

“Let me think about that a moment. Do I own this shop? Why, I think I do. Therefore, I shall enter it whenever and however I like.”

“It’s a work area, you should at least stop to put on protective gear.”

“And who’s working? I don’t recall any clients, other than the one I just mentioned that you two should be hurrying to meet.” She eyed the worktable Martin was sitting at and seemed on the verge of asking just what he’d been up to alone in the shop when Douglas stepped in to save the day.

“It’s not that we want to cause you any inconvenience, but we’d be terribly put out if you were to have an accident in your own shop. I don’t know what we’d do if you were seriously injured,” he said with such heavy-handed syrup that Carolyn’s suspicion immediately faded into disgust. Martin mouthed a silent thank you behind her back.

Martin cleared his throat. “Ah, I believe you mentioned a client?”

“Indeed I did,” Carolyn replied primly. “A Mr. Van Keys has brought in his equine construct to have the aetheric core topped up and electrical lamps installed for riding at night.”

“Carolyn, we can’t,” Martin cut in.

“Can’t we?”

“I don’t like working with electricity in the first place, but more importantly, it’s downright impossible to use it in combination with aether,” he protested.

“Nonsense. I’ve seen plenty of little brass contraptions scrabbling around with aetheric cores and electrical whatsits added on.”

“Yes, and they require complicated power sources and the two systems have to run completely separately, and even then, it’s tricky work. GE-RTI’s not up to that level of detail. At best, it’ll burn out the lamps, and at worst, the entire core might be corrupted.”

Carolyn waved dismissively. “Yes, yes, you’re full of objections to honest work, I understand. You can explain to Mr. Van Keys why you can’t fix his horse when he gets here. I think I hear the clang of metal hooves now.” She strolled out again, her face lighting up in the hideously fake smile she reserved for all their most especial customers.

Martin glared at Douglas. “Why didn’t you say something? You know as well as I do that aether and electricity aren't compatible.”

“I was keeping my eye on that,” said Douglas, nodding towards the worktable. One limb of the construct-in-progress had slipped out. Most of it was still fairly ambiguous while he waited for synthetic skin to arrive, but the visible bit was clearly handlike.

Martin grimaced, not eager to owe Douglas another one. “Oh,” he said in a small voice.

Mr. Van Keys was tall, imposing, and terribly dressed for the repair floor. Martin imagined he could see the man’s immaculate finery drawing in every stray particle of dust or cog grease in the shop. His bushy blond mustache appeared to grow darker by the second. Martin straightened to his full height of five-foot-not-much and tried to look sternly professional. Mr. Van Keys ignored him and walked directly over to Douglas..

“Make sure your boy handles her gently, now. I don’t want to see a scratch on her,” he said in the boomingly oblivious tone of someone who is too wealthy to care what a burden he is.

Douglas coughed. Martin fingered his namebadge. “Actually, sir, _I’m_ the chief engineer,” he said when their client didn’t seem to get the hint.

Mr. Van Keys turned to face him. He squinted and dug out a glinting monocle for closer inspection. “So you are,” he said, sounding unconvinced. “Well then. The both of you, take good care of her. Like I told the lady, stoke that fire, and put on those electrical lamps. I want to be the envy of all my peers!”

“Of course, sir, it’s just that, well, electricity and aether, sir, they don’t, ah, they don’t,” Martin stammered.

“Don’t what? Don’t give me that rot about how you can’t do it. That’s what they told me at all the other shops. Can’t, can’t, can’t. No such word as can’t. The woman out there assured me you could do it, and I expect it to be done.” His eyes were like hot coals under the brim of his top hat, and Martin wondered if he was secretly an extremely well-made steam construct, all bluster and fire.

“Then it’ll be no problem, sir,” said Douglas smoothly while Martin still groped for a response. “You have my— our— word that if that’s how you want it, that’s how it’ll be.”

Their client looked at Douglas, then to Martin, then back at Douglas again. “I’ll be back this time tomorrow,” he said. “I expect my baby to be polished and ready to ride.” He gave Martin one last glower before picking past the oil puddles to the door.

The horse was a nightmare. Literally, a nightmare— an old model of steam horse. This one had been clumsily converted from coal to aether, a bulky boiler still taking up most of the space in its chest. Pressure vents tried to look ornamental. Iron bones were heavy and prone to rust. And it had a temper. It bit Arthur as he led it into the shop, and kicked and struggled and fought until Martin, frustrated and panicking, took its legs out of gear. Then, it crumpled under its own impressive weight, tumbling over with a crash, and Martin panicked even more that he may have damaged it until Douglas reminded him that they were in a repair shop.

Douglas was also the one who solved their electrical lighting problem. He rerouted the aetheric flow through glass tubes filled with some luciferous gas. It was a terrible drain on the core, but a horse like that was never meant to run on aether anyway. A man like Van Keys who dressed up a cheap nightmare as a modern construct wouldn’t notice the difference. Arthur polished the beast’s copper plating to a mirror shine while it was still unable to move, and Mr. Van Keys was pleased as punch that they’d apparently done the impossible. Martin suspected wearily that they’d be seeing him again soon.

With everyone else gone home, the shop was empty again. Time for work. He’d acquired a few yards of fine copper tubing, a new gasket to replace the leaky one, a tiny ratchet for the construct’s left hand. It was slow going, collecting his materials piece by piece. Sometimes, by the time he found something, he’d forgotten what it was for, or he’d entirely redesigned that portion of the construct’s anatomy. He cringed internally every time some piece of scrap went into his personal project instead of the company’s coffers, but tried to soothe himself with the knowledge that if he didn’t appropriate it, Douglas certainly would. And he dreaded the day when the only piece left was the one he’d certainly never be able to afford: an empty aetheric core, the literal and figurative beating heart of any independent construct. As he looked over the nearly-complete automaton, he knew that day wasn’t very far off.

Martin slept in the shop. A part of him believed in the sentimental benefit of sleeping beside his life’s work, but somewhere there was an empty room in a shared house that was many months overdue on rent. It had held only a broken pair of blast goggles’ memory of him ever since his meager funds had started paying for gears and flywheels instead of room and board. Lit by the pale glow of GE-RTI’s low-power setting, the shop was warmer than the street, if nothing else. He dreamt of a tall, dashing version of himself, an artificial gentleman who could quote scholars and never stuttered in front of ladies.

He woke to rosy-fingered dawn mingling eerily with GE-RTI’s blue light. He scurried out of the shop before Carolyn or Arthur or (God forbid) Douglas could find him, and went looking for a street vendor who’d pay in fresh buns to have his cart fixed.


End file.
